


lose, fall, fold (then come right back to this)

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Category: Game Grumps, Good Game (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcoholism, Backstory, Blackmail, Gen, How They Met, Sort of AU, alex is a precious stoner, get ready for ryland being more like arin the au, hello depression my old friend, if you thought the line between alex being dan was blurry, i’m sorry i couldn’t think of a more clever screenname for ryland in this, maybe one-sided rylex too, squint and you might see rylex, steamin' is an asshole not even worth making up a name for, teen for toxic gaming language, there's definitely one-sided Ash/Alex, touch-avoidant insomniac ryland is my son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-01-10 12:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12299298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: Alex makes a humming noise, eyes still closed. “Well fuck that shit, man. What if I could find you a much more awesome Killcore team? Would he still be able to touch you?”“I mean— in theory, if we won bloodmatch?— No,” Ryland replies between shoving another bite of cold moo shu pork in his mouth and a sip of beer to keep from yelling more. “But you don’t know a goddamn thing about Killcore. You asked me what a MOBA was earlier. Nice try, man.”“What if I could though?”Or an AU no one asked for where Ryland is already a part of Lucid Nightmare, and how he actually meets Alex.





	1. Alex

**Author's Note:**

> This has no reason to exist except the fact I love my grumpy son and his French hobo life partner who definitely don't have enough fics written for them ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Looks like you guys get at least three chapters, lol.

* * *

 

 

Someone once told him _that to win the game, you just need to stay in the game._

It became clear to Ryland Smith around age thirteen, that person who told him that was more interested in hearing his own voice tell others idiotic platitudes and had never played a professional sport or fucking MOBA a day in his life. Because sometimes staying in the game could absolutely be worse than fucking leaving and letting the rest of your team carry on without your sorry ass dragging them even further down.

Case in point, his team right now.

“If I wanted a sorry ass excuse for a jerk-off session I’d call my fuckin’ ex! The fuck you guys think I’m paying you for?!” Steamin’ screams, already reading the writing on the wall for this match and prowling around his living room full of computers. Like a big cat ready to pounce on its prey. Ryland snickers as he catches from the corner of his eye Steamin' kicking a bundle of cords out of the way, nearly tripping on them in the process.

He ults hoping to stave off the onslaught to their core, but their team is too far gone for it to matter. The word “DAMNATION” flashes across his screen in blood red as the other team takes their core and the room goes silent. Steamin’s stupid fucking claustrophobic living room with its thousand dollar computers and equipment clustered together in a tight semi-circle. Everyone could meet each other's eyes guiltily from the tops of their 24” monitors right now and admit they suck playing together, but no one does.

“This is Lucid- _fucking_ -Nightmare, not some girly ass sorority. Stop. Playing. Like. _Pussies!_ ” Steamin' yells, dragging out each syllable.

Someone takes a deep breath. Steamin’s head snaps up, glaring daggers in his direction.

It’s the last straw.

“You know what dude, I quit. Fuck this _—fuck you—_ man,” says the newest recruit, a twenty-something with short brown hair, backwards cap and a baby blue Hurley tee. Slamming his backpack down angrily on his keyboard, he stuffs a few choice items in it before storming out of the room. “We play great but you’re a, like— like a fuckin’ mini-Hitler with small penis envy _,_ dude.” He looks around the room. “Peace to the rest of you sorry bastards staying in this shithole.”

“You can suck a sweaty chode in loser’s bracket, John!” Steamin’ screams, pulling his iPhone out of his pocket and typing away furiously. The sound of the door slamming rattles the windows. “Fuckin’ good riddance, am I right?” he adds, to no one in particular. “Fuckin’ John. What a fuckin’ chud.”

Steamin’ locks eyes with Ryland right as he tosses his headset off. He scratches his ear for a moment, trying to remember anything even remotely interesting about the guy who just left, while willing a headache beginning to form behind his left eye to go away.  

_John._

Ryland stopped memorizing their names after the first couple group rotations to Lucid Nightmare. Players come, players go. Tanks, assassins, junglers, healers, he’s seen them all change like a revolving door. Only one name on the roster stays consistent.

His.

“We need a new team,” Steamin says more somber, eyes sweeping across the room in accusation. “Everyone here except Ryland is— _GARBAGE!”_

At that, Ryland’s eye twitches. The dull throb behind it in his head escalates to a jackhammer placed none-so-gently against his skull and he wonders how long this one is going to last. Maybe he needs sleep. To eat. To do anything other than play fucking Killcore. They’ve been queuing matches for nearly six hours now, with barely a piss break in between. All he’s had are two energy drinks and a piece of beef jerky. His hands are fine with marathon gaming, but his eyes are beginning to rebel. Everything swims out of focus for a moment before coming back, his vision blurring at the edges.

“You’re with me bro, right? Some restructuring?” Steamin’ asks him, pulling him out of his daze. The statement leaves little in the way of option, as his hand finds Ryland’s shoulder. Chubby fingers squeeze the bones far too tight to be considered a friendly gesture and Ryland bristles at the unwanted contact.

Gritting his teeth, he shrugs him off. Batting away Steamin’s hand, Ryland sidesteps the shorter man and grabs his keys to leave.

“Whatever, man. Replace him. _Replace them all._ Let’s just get this over with and fucking win bloodmatch so I can get some fuckin’ sleep.”

“That’s that winning spirit that pays the rent, Ryland!” Steamin’ calls behind him, voice drifting away and disappearing in the static of his mind as Ryland walks down the hallway to the front door. He doesn’t stop, one foot in front of the other, autopilot until he reaches his car. Fingers fumbling with his keys, he presses the fob and accidentally hits the panic button, the shock of adrenaline hitting his system jolting him back to fully awake as the horn blares.

Once inside, he rests his head on the steering wheel. Closes his eyes for what feels like the first time in ages and counts backwards from fifty before opening his eyes again knowing they aren’t going to involuntarily close while driving. Turning the key in the ignition, he rolls down the windows and turns the radio off. It’s a breezy night and a calm drive home, the crunch of Steamin’s stupid gravel on his driveway under his tires, then just the evening wind and occasional driver honking his horn the only noise as he drives back to his apartment.  

 

The ride home through the Los Angeles suburbs is uneventful, but the throbbing in his head doesn't subside. He’s normally not a big drinker, but figures he has a good excuse to today. Picking up a six-pack at the convenience store, energy drinks and some ibuprofen for good measure, he lets out a deep sigh as he counts out the crumpled bills from his pocket. Counts them twice and makes sure he still has enough for take-out instead of eating shitty ramen noodles for dinner.

After seeing his ID for the alcohol, the cashier gives him a tired smile. She hands him his change and bags his purchases, the circles under her eyes a mirror to his own.

He really needs some fucking sleep soon.  
  


* * *

 

 The sudden rapping on the door jolts him out of his daze, as his character dies again, this time falling off a cliff. He already completely forgot he ordered food.

“Fuck!” He throws down the controller quickly and mutes the TV, making a beeline for his room to grab some sweatpants. “One sec!”

Ryland peers through the eyehole, adjusts his pants and sloppily combs his hair back into place with his fingers before opening the door.

“Hello, _helloooooooooo,_ ” a curly-haired guy leaning in his doorway replies with a small wave, his rail-thin body completely engulfed in a blue hoodie. He's clad in salmon-colored highwaters and his hair is _everywhere_. His other hand is holding up a plastic bag bulging with paper cartons. “I think this is supposed to yours.”

The smell of moo shu pork, sandalwood and weed wafts over to Ryland as he opens the door wider and takes a moment to fish out the remaining bills from his pockets. The dude in front of him smiles a toothy grin, the kind that makes his cheeks dimple and is really fucking cute. His gaze sweeps over Ryland and stops at his eyes, his own bloodshot red.

“How much was it, again?” Ryland asks, pushing the shock of blonde hair that’s fallen into his face back behind his ear. He extends the mostly flattened out bills towards the guy.

“Oh dude, thanks man!” He finally says, accepting the bills and shoving them into the pocket of his hoodie. “I gave the guy a nug of some kush and my dealer’s number cuz I thought maybe I got really high and it was mine, but I don’t eat moo shu pork? Then I remembered he said a different apartment number...” he trails off, tapping a long finger to his lips. “It’s rad you’d pay me for it! Is any of it, like, vegetarian? Or at least not pork?”

Ryland scratches the back of his neck, trying to remember exactly what he ordered this time. “Chow mein?”

“Awesome! Mind if I join, man?” He holds out his free hand to shake Ryland’s. “I’m Alex, by the way.”

“I guess?”

Before Ryland can uncross his arms, Alex is already walking into Ryland’s apartment and making his way towards the living room, the take-out bag swinging from one of his hands. Eyes wide, he looks around at the threadbare furniture. The posters on the walls. The gaming consoles hooked up to the TV, and the cans and bottles that litter the top of the coffee table. Ryland knows it's not much, but it's not like playing full time for Lucid Nightmare really gives him the time to have an actual job and afford the luxuries of a new place or couch, even if Steamin’ can.

“Wow, an XBOX, huh? Love those,” Alex says dreamily, plopping down on Ryland’s couch right next to where he normally sits and opening up the bag of food, handing him his moo shu pork and some chopsticks. “And a Super Nintendo. And a PS4. _Wow._ ” He whistles as he plucks random titles from his coffee table, then sets the back where they were. “You play more shoot-y games with guns or those long-ass story ones?”

“Whatever—” Ryland replies quickly. “Both, um, I guess.”

“Cool. What’s this one?” Alex holds up, then tosses the empty case of the game he’s playing right now into Ryland’s lap with a grin. Fishes around the bag of Chinese food for the chow mein and a fork, expression expectant. Like a puppy.

What the hell. If Alex wants to talk video games that aren’t fucking Killcore, he can absolutely do that.

 

* * *

 

It takes nearly an hour to explain the plot of the game he’s playing, mentioning facts and theories off the top of his head in an excited rush while the other man on his couch eats through the entire box of chow mein. Alex leans in after he’s done eating, listening to Ryland's every word even though he probably has no idea what he’s talking about. He’s in the middle of explaining the exploit of how to break the leveling system early in the game, when Alex suddenly rests a warm hand on his thigh and Ryland shuts his mouth mid-sentence with an audible _clack_ at the unexpected physical contact.

“Wow, dude. You know, like, _a lot_ about this game, huh?”

Ryland gives him an uneasy smile. A half-shrug, as he pulls away. “Yeah, I’m not like _amazing_ at it, but the franchise has been a favorite since I was a kid.”

“No, man. You totally are!” Alex replies, leaning even closer and making the hairs on Ryland’s arms stand up. “You're like— _wow_. I, um, played like Mario, Metroid and Contra when I was younger?” He adds almost a touch conspiratorially, finally moving his hand back to beside him and leaning back into the couch cushions with a small smile. “But I don’t really know about these new games other than the sweet character designs.”

A beat passes and Ryland fights a few more enemies, biting his bottom lip between his teeth almost hard enough to bleed as he finally making some real progress in the game. Alex still has his eyes shut, long lashes like smudges on his cheeks, fingers tapping to the tempo of the game’s music and Ryland wonders if the guy’s a musician —is about to ask him— but Alex suddenly opens his eyes and jolts up. He breaks their amicable silence at the worst time possible for Ryland to be distracted. The music changes, signaling the start of a boss fight.

“So you, like, play games for a living? Or do you make them?”

“Nah, man,” Ryland replies with a dry laugh, eyes still glued to the TV screen. “Like, on the books? I do freelance animation stuff, but that’s not always— anyway, usually I’m on this team for this shitty MOBA— ”

“MOBA?” Alex tilts his head and looks at him quizzically, a lock of curly hair wrapped around one of his long fingers he idly twists. Ryland is surprised his sluggish, sleep-deprived brain automatically comes up with an answer as fast as it does.

“One of those online game things where five people are pressing five buttons against five other people pressing the same five buttons. I used to like it a lot more when I was younger but now I know it's stupid as shit. Also people pay a lot of money to teams that win.”

“Oh like eSports—" And Ryland cant help but chuckle the way Alex mispronounces eSports. "And you’re like, _really good_ at it, right?”

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “I guess, yeah.”

“And it makes money?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Ryland, can you show me this game? _Killcorn?_ ” Alex asks, suddenly curious. He's still twirling that lock of hair and before Ryland realizes that means they’ll be at his computer, Alex crowding even more into his personal space, he stupidly nods and pauses the game he's currently playing.

It takes a few minutes to boot up and he doesn’t have the newest patch on this computer, but Alex doesn't mind the wait. Busies himself in the meantime with rolling a joint on his dinner table as Ryland fiddles with his computer settings to play the game. Putting the finishing touches on the joint, Alex wets his lips and licks the edge of the paper and Ryland tries very hard not to stare at how fluidly Alex moves as he finishes up and pockets the joint.

Thankfully the start screen for Killcore pops up, grabbing both of their attentions.

“So what do you do?”

“ADC. I’m the carry,” Ryland replies, going solo into 5v5 queue. He picks his best character and cracks his knuckles, totally not trying to impress the guy crouching next to him and peering at the screen. “It’s like— I’m the main DPS of the group, especially late game.”

“And you’re that guy?” Alex points at his champion, a fat, surly teenage manatee. “What kind of screen name is _Egoraptor_?”

“Hey man, at least its not like DogShit86 or — _Fuck! God fucking dammit—_ I forgot to log into a fucking smurf account. Great.” He grits his teeth, as he goes to lane anyway and tries not to pay attention to the chat on the left side of the screen buzzing with the now-insistent pings to join voice chat by his team.

“Hey, Alex. Can you grab me a beer?” He asks, a nervous sweat beginning to form on the back of his neck as Alex hovers close behind him reading the chat logs. His hands are on the back of Ryland’s chair, fingertips just barely brushing his shoulders and he can feel Alex's breath tickling the back of his ear. “The next twenty-or-so minutes of my life are gonna suck sweaty balls.”

* * *

 

 

Thirty minutes later, they get the core after all, even with him pulling the majority of the weight for his team. The yellow letters of "REDEMPTION" flash across his screen, and he swivels around in his chair with a smug grin as Alex high-fives him gamely.

He makes sure for the next match to log out of his account and into a smurf account before showing Alex the basics of the game: the different types of champions and the roles they play, where they lane on the map and where the important parts are. He tries to quash his anger every time he queues with a shitty, toxic piece of garbage player because he wants Alex to have a good time since he's so interested in the game, excitedly pointing at the screen when he figures something new out on his own. But he slips a few times. After finally queuing with a team so bad even he can't save them, he exits the game in an angry huff.

“Sorry man, I—” he runs his hand through his hair, the same nervous gesture he’s been trying to shake since Alex entered his apartment. “I don’t usually play at home anymore. Too much of a thing, you know?”

“Wow, dude,” Alex looks at him awestruck, ignoring his last statement. “You have fans. That’s fuckin’— that’s _wild_ , man. I always wanted fans.”

“It's not worth it, dude.”

“Really?”

He’s about to tell Alex about his old DOTA days, but stops. He’s pretty sure there’s no way in hell the guy knows who he is or would care, but it’s a matter of his pride and not something he shares with just anyone, especially with the efforts he and Steamin’ took to hide his old identity of Boogerboss from the Killcore community. Still, it would be nice to tell someone how frustrated he’s been with Steamin’s relentless goading, and the grueling hours with Lucid Nightmare. He can’t remember the last time he was on a Killcore team he actually enjoyed. He can’t remember the last time he played the game and enjoyed it. He can’t remember the last time he got a good night’s worth of sleep. Or was around anyone who was even tolerable of a presence for more than twenty minutes.

He’s made so many mistakes, he might as well bite the bullet and see if this ends up being another one.

“Let’s go grab another six-pack," Ryland says, grabbing a nearby sweater and sniffing it to make sure it doesn't smell too rank. "I’ll tell you about that stupid shit on the way.”

Alex gives him a thumbs up. "Lead the way, my man."

* * *

 

They’re back at his apartment on the couch, his computer long since turned off in favor of playing more videogames on the TV. Alex’s arm dangles off the back of his couch as he hits the joint he rolled earlier, the acrid smoke filling Ryland’s nostrils and making his head swim. He exhales the smoke towards the ceiling, then turns to Ryland. He offered to share earlier, but Ryland waved it off, lifting up his beer and taking another swig of the brew instead.

“So wait, let me try and wrap my head around this. Steamin' figured out you were Boogerboss, who he had already doxxed with that video he had of you freaking out when your mom changed the password to your DOTA account? And he's been blackmailing you to play for his team ever since?"

Ryland rolls his eyes. "You know, when you put it like that, it _does_ sound really stupid."

"No, wow. That’s some rough shit, dude. Like with the old alias and secret identity and all that,” Alex says, staring up at the dingy, off-white popcorn ceiling. “I honestly don’t get all of it but I do know forcing someone to play for you isn’t cool, man. That steamy semen guy sounds like a grade-A D-bag. Also what kind of douche name is steamy semen?” 

“I mean, at least I didn’t get like doxxed out, you know?" Ryland replies, picking at the label of his almost finished beer until one of the edges curls. "Just had to switch from DOTA to Killcore.”

“It's different. DOTA made you happy, right?” Alex asks, blowing smoke to the side and then leaning in close again. He taps the ash of the joint into an empty beer bottle and Ryland looks up at the same moment, both looking each other in the eyes. Alex gives him a steady, searching stare. The kind that's deep enough he has to look away after a few moments, leaving the other man to study the side of his face."But you’re not like happy with Killcore, are you?"

“Ryland?”

He finally loses it. “No, I fuckin’ hate the game! And I fuckin’ hate that assclown who acts like I’m his fucking prize and treats everyone else like garbage!" He replies angrily, kicking one of the legs of his coffee table and instantly regretting the stubbed toe he receives in return for being barefoot. "But that fucker— _ow_ — like, he could ruin me making any money off this if I quit and it’s solid money right now in between jobs. I'm already fucking behind on rent.”

“Ruin you? Like that video or whatever is considered legit blackmail?”

“I don't know, _probably._ ”

Alex makes a humming noise, eyes still closed. “Well fuck that shit, man. What if I could find you a much more awesome Killcore team? Would he still be able to touch you?”

“I mean— in theory, if we won bloodmatch?— No,” Ryland replies between shoving another bite of cold moo shu pork in his mouth and a sip of beer to keep from yelling more. Alex is just trying to help, even if his naïve hope touched a nerve. “But you don’t know a goddamn thing about Killcore. You asked me what a MOBA was earlier. Nice try, man.”

“What if I could though?”

“How high are you?” Ryland scoffs, popping open another beer. Maybe Alex has succeeded in hotboxing his apartment or if it’s just being so close to another person that's getting to him, keeping him jittery and in a perpetual cold sweat while still somehow being bone-deep exhausted. His toe still throbs and he feels like he's acutely aware of his body, his surroundings. “Trying to poach me from Lucid Nightmare? People would die to have the spot I have. People would kill _you_ for trying to poach me before them.”

“What if I could though?” Alex asks again, this time quieter. More serious.

“Yeah, if you could find me a better team I’d fuckin' quit in a heartbeat. Like you said earlier, _fuck that shit._ “

“I will, Ryland. I absolutely will,” Alex says, staring at him, the face of complete sincerity. He crosses his heart, then extends his pinky to Ryland. "Scouts honor."

Alex finally puts down his hand. Looking slightly dejected he breaks eye contact, but covers it with a bright grin and Ryland realizes he missed a social cue (or three) in that moment, that Alex was trying to hand him an olive branch, a friendship, whatever, and he _completely_ missed the point. That he doesn't care about his past or that he lives in a stupid apartment and plays videogames all day. Alex wants to be his friend.

Ryland almost believes the determination in Alex’s eyes might come to fruition, until a few moments pass and he hears the click of a lighter. Looking down, Alex is cupping his hands as he lights up another joint magically procured from his pocket. His eyes dart back up to Ryland. "You still sure you don't want to get high man? You seem like you need it more than me."

"Nah, man. Enjoy it for me while I rip this bitchass boss a new one to fit both my dick and balls in when I go deep."

Just like that, the weirdness is gone. They’re both laughing, Alex dissolving into a fit of giggles and exhaling a cloud of blue-gray smoke as Ryland finishes another beer and turns back on the XBOX.

 

* * *

 

  
It takes him dying at the boss of the level three times to realize he’s been in the gaming zone for over an hour and Alex hasn't said a word since promising him he'd find him a new team. He also realizes that the constant pressure on his left arm is Alex, body leaning into his as he snores softly. Ryland debates waking him, asking him if he’s gonna go home to whatever apartment he came from, then quickly squashes the idea when he realizes that the last few hours talking to him have been the most fun he’s had in weeks. More satisfying than a pentakill, than getting redemption in under twenty minutes, even better than when the somewhat attractive cashier at the convenience store vaguely hits on him.

Instead, Ryland turns off the XBOX and tries to extract himself from the couch as quietly and gently as possible. He had actual fun tonight and he doesn’t want Alex to go home and take that fun away with him. Even if the guy smells like weed and constantly invades his personal space in such a casual, nonchalant way. Ryland kinda likes the dude being around.

Alex snuffles in his sleep, his lanky frame compact on the couch as he curls around nothing. He took off his hoodie at some point in the night and Ryland can see he’s shivering now that he isn’t next to him, sucking up his body heat on the couch.

So he does the nice things that hosts do, leaves him out a water on the coffee table and drapes a blanket from the other couch over Alex’s sleeping body, before padding down the hallway to his own room.

Laying down in his bed, Ryland gets under the covers then ends up kicking them off again minutes later. Rolls on his back, then his side. He checks his cellphone. Puts it down. Checks it again. Groaning, he tries counting down from one-hundred but his mind is still restless as ever. He gets up and turns on a lamp, tries reading to unwind, eyes finally slipping shut a few chapters in after line after line of print stops making sense in his head. His mind’s still hyper aware another person is in his apartment. Doesn’t want to stop thinking about everything that has happened. His dreams become a fitful, restless jumble of Steamin’s stupid screechy voice yelling, Killcore stats scrolling rapidly down a screen, sunshine bright enough he has to squint his eyes and a fluffy halo of brown hair obscuring his vision.

He doesn’t hear Alex quietly leave his apartment in the morning.

Finally passed out, Ryland stays cocooned under the covers, his last thought before going to sleep hoping to god that his phone doesn’t go off, that they don’t have practice again today and that one day he can finally tell Steamin' to fuck right off.


	2. Ryland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryland lets his depression get the better of him aka. a feel I know all too well.

* * *

 

Ryland rolls over with a groan, cracking his eyes as light filters in between the broken blinds in his room. There’s a pounding on the door to replace the pounding in his head, and he goes to check the time on his phone. He squints at the screen but the phone is dead. He pulls on some newish clothes from a pile on the ground he’s pretty sure is clean without even bothering to sniff them to go find his charger.

The first thing he notices is the knocking has stopped. Followed by the fact the place smells like burnt food and the heavy stench of weed. This is reasonably confirmed by the presence of Alex on his couch, cross-legged and hunched over a bong he doesn’t remember being owner to, much less letting Alex bring into his apartment. He’s got a bag of clothes at the foot of the couch and is wearing a different outfit too. This time it’s a cobalt blue shirt layered with an orange Hawaiian shirt, some faded ripped jeans. He’s still barefoot and his wild brown hair’s messy as the night before.  

“The knocking was probably that guy from your team or the landlord,” Alex replies after taking a hit, motioning vaguely to the door. “I, uh, didn’t want to wake you up because you looked really tired, but they’re really insistent for some reason.”

Ryland rolls his eyes, plopping down wordlessly on the couch next to Alex, close enough their arms brush. Turning on the TV and finding some shitty procedural drama, he’s too tired to do anything about it. Just sinks into the cushions with a groan when his phone finally has enough juice to turn on and alert him to all the calls, voicemails, texts and group chat notifications he missed.

“You okay?” Alex asks, scooting the wrappers and cans out of the way to set the mysterious bong on the coffee table. Or at least as gently as someone higher than a kite can manage. 

He mostly succeeds.

“No,” Ryland replies, thumbing through the notifications one by one and deleting them.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Also, no.”

“I’d ask if you wanted food but I burnt it. We might need to order out. I might also need to buy you a new pan.”

Ryland doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

“I have some leads on team members,” Alex says brightly, but it only sours Ryland’s mood even more to start the day talking Killcore. “We actually have a few local players who are young, but really good. I, uh, have their ganks and stuff screenshot somewhere on my phone for you to look at if you wanna—”

Ryland covers his face with a throw pillow, reply muffled by scratchy wool. “I get that you’re like, trying to help me for some reason. But I don’t fuckin’ care right now, dude. I can’t leave Lucid Nightmare. It was a stupid idea.”

“You haven’t been out of your room in two days.”

“So?”

“Your answer to that is _so?_ ”

“That’s not leaving them,” Ryland snaps back defensively, letting the throw pillow drop back down to his lap. Alex shrinks next to him, back hitting the armrest. “That’s just  _ avoiding _ them.”

“Well, far be it from me to comment on coping skills,” Alex replies as he reaches for the bong again, knocking over a half-drank bottle of beer and mopping it up with one of his discarded t-shirts. “But my therapist would say that you probably really need to work on yours.”

The pounding on the door starts anew.

“What I need is sleep! Is to have a life of my own! And to not be lectured in my own living room by a fucking strange — _ Fuck! I’m coming! _ — _ just stop fucking knocking on my goddamn door!” _

“We are not discussing coping skills after this,” he says pointing at Alex, glaring daggers as he storms from the couch to the door. He flings it open to find Steamin’ standing there, eyes narrowed as he sniffs the air coming out of the apartment and holding some crumpled papers in his fist. The smell of cheap cologne assaults Ryland’s nostrils and he realizes he prefers the soft lingering smell of sandalwood and weed his apartment has taken on instead of stale sweat and booze. 

Steamin’ puts a hand on the doorjamb but Ryland blocks his entrance to the apartment and hopefully him seeing Alex on his couch as well. “You haven’t shown up to practice, you haven’t returned my calls or texts. A rumor went around the boards you snapped after losing PR matches and hung yourself with your mouse cord.”

“Jokes on them, I use a wireless mouse,” Ryland replies dryly. “Been sick.” He fakes a cough for good measure.

“Bullshit. You’re not getting cold feet about bloodmatch are you?”

“No.”

“Good, I already told you we’ve got this. You can carry any team to bloodmatch, as long as they aren’t all as fuckin’ moronic as John.”

“Whatever,” he replies, trying to close the door. “I’m alive. Glad we had this talk. Bye.”

Steamin’ gives him a devious grin, hand sliding in between the door and the jamb enough even if Ryland tries to shut it he won’t succeed. Holds up the eviction notice crumpled in his hand with the other. “By the way, pal. I ran into your landlord Lorenzo on the way up. Seems you were a little behind on rent so I took care of it since you weren’t feeling well apparently. See ya tomorrow,  _ Boogerboss.  _ Bring your A game for the new team. _ ” _

He finally moves out of the way, throwing the papers in his face with a laugh and Ryland shuts the door, none too gently. Walking over to the fridge he tosses the eviction notice into the trash and goes to look for a beer, but Alex is there handing him one already opened.

“Was that the semen guy?” He asks, and Ryland nods. “Wow, he’s a lot shorter than I thought he’d be. Like,  _ a lot shorter. _ Just as much of a douche though.”

“He just kept me from being evicted. _ Again. _ ”

“Still a douche,” Alex replies, shaking his head, tossing his wild curls as he opens himself a beer too. “No amount of altruism will hide that fact.”

Ryland begins to walk back to his room, when he feels Alex’s hand on his shoulder, gently maneuvering him to turn around. “You just woke up.”

“And now I’m fucking tired again, Alex. Leave me alone.” He can feel his breathing speeding up and all he wants to do is go back into his room and sleep. Sleep until bloodmatch is fucking over, but he knows he can’t do that. 

“I should probably play some Killcore anyway.”

“Hey, nononono,” Alex says soothingly, the hand on his shoulder rubbing his back making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Big guy, don’t do that. Let’s play something old school instead to cheer you up.” 

Alex leads him back over to the couch gently. Sets down his beer and holds up Super Mario World and Sonic 2, waiting for Ryland to choose which one they play.

 

* * *

 

 

It ends up being a surprising amount of fun. Alex isn’t that great at the game, but he’s no sore loser like Ryland when he dies and is equally able to trade quips with him and encourage him at the same time. They make their way through another six-pack and to the Metropolis Zone before they both tire of Sonic and Tails and call it quits. Laying back on the couch, they're both staring at the ceiling, enjoying the silence and each other's company.

“Feel any better?” Alex finally asks, nudging him with his elbow and it catches Ryland by surprise, the casual ways he manages to invade his personal space.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Hey, honestly… do you want me to ditch the whole Killcore idea?” He asks meekly, looking down at his hands. “I don’t— I didn’t mean for it to make you feel worse.”

Ryland puts down his genesis controller with a sigh. “No, hey. Look at me, Alex. Man, _fuck._ I’m— I’m not mad at you. You know I’m mad at Steamin’ right?”

Alex makes a small noncommittal hum that is far from reassuring. 

“Like the whole thing is just total  _ bullshit.  _ I’m a grown ass man letting some dickweed use something I did at thirteen to rule my life.”

“You could just like, stop?” Alex offers. “Join the circus. We could start a band!" 

"Yeah okay, genius. What would our band even be about?"

"Videogames!" Alex says excitedly. "We could sing about them!"

"Mmmmhmmmph," Ryland scoffs, taking the last swig of his beer.

"Anyway, like fuck that guy and what he wants," Alex continues to ramble on animatedly, and Ryland just gives him a tired half-smile in return. "What does he want anyway? Does he even have a real name? What if it’s like  _ Steven? _ Just imagine it—” He waves his hand in an arc, holding back a fit of giggles. _ “Steamin’ Semen Steven.” _

“You are. So. High. Right now.” Ryland manages to say, in between biting back an actual laugh threatening to escape. “Fuck if I know that prick’s real name. Like I said, he and I aren’t friends.”

“But we are? Right?”

Alex turns to him with the kind of puppy eyes he's only ever seen kids pull off, not grown-ass adults. Fuck.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” he replies as nonchalant as possible.

“Uhhhh, there’s another thing, Ry.” Alex asks, eyes flitting from his face to the floor and back again. “Could I maybe stay here a few days while I work on that Killcore idea or a not-Killcore idea? I don’t actually live in these apartments. I just was at a friend of a friend’s house when I accidentally took your food and met you.”

Ryland’s hand hovers in the air for a moment before he awkwardly places it on Alex’s shoulder, imitating the way the other man tries to cheer him up. “It’s not like anyone else is sleeping on the couch. Just do us both a favor and replace my beer if you drink it?”

“You got it, boss.” 

“Also can we  _ pleeeeease  _ stop sharing our feelings now?”

Alex gives him a goofy grin and he cracks a small smile in return.

“Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, this thing still isn't over. What am I doing with my life?


	3. Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Alex actually meets Ash. 
> 
> In a bar, _naturally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I wrote Alex basically doing the breadsticks meme. I'm dying.
> 
> Also I should probably wrap this up, it's starting to meander.

* * *

 

To say Alex is worried about Ryland would be the understatement of the year. The century, even.  

He doesn’t know him —really just met the guy, but he’s pretty sure refusing to come out of his room for two days is not a normal thing people do. Ryland may not be the happiest guy he’s ever met, but he’s at least seen him leave the apartment in the past, his long sleeved shirts and uncharacteristically bright blonde streak of hair as he went and got the mail or took out the trash notable enough for even Alex to remember.

So the dude’s not a, like _—what’s that word for shut in?—_ oh yeah, _agoraphobic._ Definitely not one of those.

Plus they went out the other night to get beer, and he didn’t seem to have a problem leaving the place then. In fact, he was the one to offer that they leave to grab more beers. So this must be something else. Probably that jerkoff guy on his team he was talking about.

His friend meanders into the room as he’s in the middle of picking up his clothes from the ground, meagre belongings fitting neatly into a rucksack. Alex flips his friend off congenially when he finds out after moving stuff on the couches around and hunting for his stash of weed, that both the baggie and the bowl to his bong are empty, only stray bits remaining and the smell of what once was.

_Figures._

“We’re out of weed, bro,” his friend tells him, eyeing Alex haphazardly picking up his stuff and stuffing it in his bag. Trying to figure out solutions to getting Ryland out of his room and the situation he’s in. “You leavin’?”

“Yeah, I’ve got this thing I’ve gotta _—”_ he takes a hard look at the dusty guitar in the corner of the room, before grabbing it too. “Hopefully it pans out.”

“Cool,” his friend replies, then goes to rummage through the fridge. “I’m like mad hungry, man. That was some good ganj. Let me know when you get some more.”

Alex nods his head, not really paying attention. “For sure.”

Staring wistfully at the guitar in his hands, he figures he can get a couple bucks off of pawning it since he won’t be using it anymore. The extra money won’t hurt, he’s got no reliable income and is basically out of weed now. He's been couch-surfing longer than he'd like to admit. Maybe he can use some of the money to help pay for something a little more permanent. He’d hate for Ryland to think he’s just trying to mooch food and beer off him. Ryland has probably had enough of that in his life before.

The sooner he gets going on that Killcore team and gets Ryland away from that guy, the better. He’s known people like that in the past, people who act like they care but really just care about your talent. _Fake friends_ , he’s had those too. Maybe not one’s as insidious as Steamin’, but he and the blue spandex jumpsuit folded carefully at the very bottom of his bag are most definitely exactly where they are for a reason.

Perhaps he should get rid of that soon too. Toss everything into this Killcore idea, go balls completely out. It’s not like he has much else to lose anyway.

Besides, even if he did just meet the guy, he can already tell that Ryland deserves better.

 

* * *

 

 At the bar, he orders his usual, knocking it back as he types away on his phone. A few google searches later, he’s found three whole people in their area really high up on the Killcore power rankings— _that’s promising, right?_

Screenshotting their profiles and shooting them a quick message so he doesn’t forget, he puts his phone back on the sticky bar top. Checks it for any messages back. Sets it down. Checks it again. Sets it down again. Takes a sip. Later, rinse, repeat.

“You expecting an important phone call?”

Alex looks up to see a totally babe-a-licious babe rocking an amazing leather jacket, black nail polish and purple hair, either laughing at him or in his general direction. She knocks back her drink, and settles into the barstool next to him.

“Uh, something like that.”

Normally he’d totally be into this situation, this scenario, and how it would play out. But right now he’s got to stop getting distracted. He’s on a mission, whether he likes it or not. He’s got things to do, people to contact.

His stomach rumbles in protest at the alcohol so early. Man, he could go for some food right now even though this cutie wants to talk to him. Fuck, pancakes have always seemed to cheer him up. Maybe he should make Ryland some breakfast, show him how much he appreciates his new friend. Maybe Ryland will finally come out of his room. Maybe they can all eat pancakes together.

“I’ve seen you here a few times doing karaoke,” the girl looks at him, then his guitar, and back at him. “I just wanted to say, since you look pretty down today— you’re not bad when you aren’t completely wasted. It’s good to see someone doing what they love.”

Alex frowns.

Oh, one of _those._

“I’m not in a band anymore,” he replies stiffly, trying to keep his head up along with his pride. He drinks the rest of his drink and flags the bartender over for a new one.

“Oh,” she replies quieter, tapping her fingers on her glass. “Well I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I?”

They stare at each other awkwardly for a few moments.

“No, it’s— you’re fine,” he sighs, reassuring her as he crumbles. He never was good at this kind of stuff once people actually start looking hurt. The sound of his phone chiming breaks the stilted silence and bad midday bar music in the background. “I’m just kinda trying to get something together right now...” he trails off as he checks the message from _—HotDiarrhea?_

Wow, Killcore names are _weird._

“A music thing?”

“Nah, a game thing. A team for this MOBLA, Killcore.” Typing out his reply to their first prospective recruit, he hears her set down her glass none too gently next to him. 

“I play Killcore,” she replies, inching closer to him. The flirtatious affectation in her voice gone. “Who’s your team?”

“Well, see… that’s the thing I’m working on,” he replies, scratching the back of his neck and looking down. “I’ve got a member of Lucid Nightmare that really wants to—”

“No fuckin’ way.”

She reaches for his phone, just far enough away she can’t snatch it up. “I’m in. I’ll tryout. Whatever you want. I’m good.”

“I didn’t even finish what I was—”

“I said, _I’m in._ ” She pulls a receipt out of her pocket and scribbles on it quickly, pushing it his way. A phone number, a name and a gamertag. _Cool?_

“At first I was just trying to get into your pants or whatever.” She holds up her hands, smiling and looking only slightly guilty. “But if you have someone from Lucid, you guys must actually mean business. Bloodmatch is coming up and I’ve always wanted to play for a decent team, not just watch people from the sidelines. Hit me up.”

“For sure—” he replies, finishing his drink and peering at the name on the receipt. “Ash. I have to run this by my partner, but I'm sure it'll be fine.”

She grins at him, and flags the bartender down for another drink.

“Want another?” She asks, but guilt is slowly creeping its way into his stomach along with the tendrils of elation. He looks at the empty glasses in front of him, at her number on the crumpled receipt and his phone going off with messages from HotDiarrhea. Thinks about the guitar beside him, Ryland probably still in his room.

She orders two shots, and slides one his way.

“Look," he levels with her as gently as possible. "You’re, frankly, _really_ hot. Like out of my league hot. And I’d love to stay here and talk, but I’ve gotta let Ry know the good news.”

She nearly drops her shot back on the counter.

“Wait, Ry as in Ryland. As in Ego—”

“It was nice meeting you!” He interjects, voice going up almost a full octave, as he quickly takes the shot and slaps a twenty on the counter. Grabbing his belongings, he stumbles out the blacked out doors and into the harsh midday sunlight of Los Angeles. As he squints and makes his way down the street, he realizes he already has two people for their team, plus him and Ryland. He'll figure out the thing with Ash later if it comes up again.

They just need one more person and they are a team. A Killcore team that can start playing Killcore —no, not just playing— _winning Killcore._

Wicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the positive feedback about this fic. in a fandom this small i'm really surprised how much you guys like it and i want to encourage you all if you feel compelled to write for a small fandom~ you should! 
> 
> i'm a firm believer that if something touches me in a certain way creatively and there's so little of it, i feel compelled to share, and you should too <3


	4. Ryland, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They still haven't gotten their shit together, and its starting to take a toll on Ryland.

It’s two weeks later, and they’re still not playing Killcore. The eviction notice Steamin’ threw in Ryland’s face has long since been thrown away, but the threat of it lingers in not just his, but also Alex’s mind.

Ryland hasn't done anything, but Alex has taken the plunge and has applied himself to finding the last team members they need for their team with an amount unbearable amount of vigor, enthusiasm edging towards this side of annoying for Ryland's tastes. He’d kick him out, were it not for the fact he’s taken to making sure the apartment is well-stocked with beer, frozen pizzas, pancakes and distractions.

 _Especially distractions,_ Ryland thinks, as they’re side by side on the couch. He can feel the outside of Alex’s thigh flush against his in the sticky heat of the apartment, as he flips through everything the other man has compiled about prospective teammates. This somehow includes scribbles on napkins and receipts in what he's come to know as the other man's messy handwriting, haphazardly crinkled papers in an equally haphazard pile Alex tossed at him as he came in the door with a partially eaten pizza and six-pack he immediately put in the fridge before picking up a cartridge, blowing in it a few times and popping it into his NES before settling down next to him on his couch.

“We’re checking ganks now?” Ryland asks, as he shuffles the papers Alex handed him. He scans the list. _HotDiahrrea. Ballbang96. Ashes2Dust,_ even John who got kicked out of Lucid Nightmare _._ Some of the people Alex found are legitimate players, and their stats look... actually pretty good.

_Huh._

“Yeah, isn’t that what you look for?” Alex asks without looking away from the screen, square nintendo controller in a tight grip. "Whatever those are. You check those, right?"

He’s completely in the zone, teeth chewing on his bottom lip in concentration as he dodges the onslaught of projectiles being sent towards him. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, disappearing into his fluffy hair. Finally dying, he hands the controller over with a sigh and reaches out for a bottle from the table.

Ryland tosses the papers onto the ground next to him. Hits the small black button to continue the level as Alex picks the least dubious looking bottle up.

“I mean, yeah. I’m just surprised.”

“I’m as serious about this as you are— _as you want me to be_ ,” Alex replies, pulling a face as he drinks from the half-empty bottle. “That… that was not from today. Super gross. Do not recommend.”

They both laugh and Ryland begins playing the game Alex chose again. Jumping in, he immediately dies and it sends them into another fit of laughter.

“Dude, you are like _really bad_ at this game for some reason,” Alex remarks with a smirk, after finding his original bottle of beer. “Just like, wait for a sec and go with the flow.”

“I am going with the flow," he growls back. "I am so goddamn one with the flow right now, I'm a flowmaster.”

“You talk a lot of talk, Ry. You forget how to play 2D games because of your MOBAs already?”

“No! I am flowy _as fuck,_ asshole. The physics on this game are just fuckin' garbage.”

He starts the level over again, but this time Alex leans over, into his space. Hooking his chin over Ryland’s shoulder, he taps along to the rhythm of the attacks onto Ryland’s arm _—one two, one two, one two three four—_ and he jumps, shoots, ducks and jumps again to the beat of long fingers drumming on his sweaty skin. Once he gets the rhythm of the attacks he’s set, focusing entirely on the screen and not on Alex. Its just the tiny pixels he’s been dodging and nothing else, just like when he plays Killcore. 

“There ya go,” Alex says, finally making a satisfied noise before leaning back into the couch, but not completely out of Ryland’s space. Sipping on his beer, he occasionally checks his phone for messages but mostly has his eyes on the screen, as Ryland clears the level.

The sounds of the vibrations rattling on the table from his phone break the good mood. Ryland doesn’t have to look from the game to the screen of his phone to know who it is, but Alex is suddenly fidgeting from his side of the couch after glancing at his phone. He hasn’t seen Steamin’ since he came by, hasn’t logged into Killcore since _forever_ , and hasn’t drawn anything since well before then. Life has mostly been playing this, old-school games and beers on the couch with Alex.

“Hey, Ry?” Alex asks quietly, fingers still loosely wrapped around his bottle and now picking off the label, a nervous habit he picked up from Ryland.

“Hm?”

He continues to pick at the label, looking down at the grungy carpet. “What do you want to do about the apartment after you leave Lucid Nightmare?”

And that’s the thing Ryland isn’t sure about. He hasn’t really been doing anything about the situation other than avoiding it. Avoiding Steamin’. Avoiding Killcore. Avoiding commissions. Avoiding checking his dwindling bank account. He could fix the situation, but he’s just so goddamn tired of what it will probably mean to do it.

“I have some money,” Alex blurts out when Ryland keeps his eyes on the screen and doesn’t answer him, suddenly looking very guilty. “I should probably pay you for crashing here.”

“No. Man, _no_ . I can’t take your money.” He turns his head a split second to look at Alex and ends up jumping one too many times, narrowly dodging the oncoming projectiles. But fate had other plans for him and his character falls off the platform. _“_ You’re already— _Fuck!”_

He dies at the boss and throws down the controller. It hits the carpet with a soft thunk, and they both stare it instead of each other. His phone alerts him he has a voicemail before the screen goes dark again.

“I’m also the one convincing you to leave your job.”

“Yeah well I can do some more commissions or something. Don’t sweat it. Besides you said you met with some of those people, right?”

“Oh yeah. Dude, I met one in a bar. Super cutie.”

“Only you could somehow pick up a Killcore chick in a bar,” he scoffs, picking the controller back up and leaving it on the table in between them. Readjusting in the form of stretching, he presses himself against the arm of the couch and puts some space between him and Alex, now busy packing a bowl for his bong. Lighting up, Alex inhales, only slightly coughing as he offers the bong to him, but Ryland waves him off.

“Well she seemed more interested in talking about you, dude.”

He raises an eyebrow at that. In the glow of the television screen he can see Alex shrug minutely and take another hit, leaving the living room hazy from the bluish-gray smoke. It feels like the room has ratcheted up another couple degrees To the point he'll have to turn on the AC before he goes to bed, or open the windows and let the now perpetual smell of pot air out of the apartment.

“Me?”

“Yeah, I might have— _I swear_ _it was completely by accident_ — I said your name. But like _yours_ , not your Killcore name.” Alex sets the bong down none too gently. Takes the controller back with an apologetic look. “But she knew who you were and got really serious after that. Weird, right?”

“Yeah,” Ryland agrees, furrowing his brow. “Weird.”

“You still want her on the team though, yeah?”

“I mean, if she wanted more than just being on the team, she would have already done it,” he replies, leaning back into the cushions and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m not worried.”

 

* * *

  
He wakes up with a gasp, sheets tangled around him. Drenched in sweat from head to toe, he’s shivering even though he ended up forgetting to turn on the AC before going to bed after all. Swiping at the sweaty mess of hair covering his face and obscuring his vision, he sees the fan lazily turning above him. _Shit, s_ omething else's moving in the dark of his room. His eyes refocus in the dim light and meet Alex's, who look like a deer caught in the headlights. Hovering over him, expression panicked.

His hand makes a nervous, skittery path from Ryland's shoulder to his wrist and back. He's trying too hard to not obviously linger on the skin the pads of his fingers find in the dark. Voice barely a whisper, he tentatively pets Ryland, shushing him. “It’s just a nightmare, Ry. You’re fine, you’re here. It’s okay.”

Ryland rolls onto his back with a huff, shying away from the contact.

“Why the fuck are you in my room, Alex?”

“You were yelling in your sleep,” he replies softly, sitting back on the edge of his bed. “I used to have night terrors as a kid and you were really loud, man. I thought you were _hurt.”_

His bottom lip quivers and Ryland closes his eyes again. “Shit.”

“You want a hug, big guy?”

_“No.”_

“Want me to stay here with you?”

_“Absolutely not.”_

“Hey, I made sure not to ask about your feelings this time!” Alex says, already getting off his bed, but hasn't left the room. Standing there for a moment, he sways like a spindly limb from a giant tree in a gentle breeze, indecisive. Ryland wonders how much he's drank since he went to bed. Probably a lot.

“Fuck off,” Ryland finally grumbles out, without teeth. He'll probably regret it later but launches one of the pillows from his bed at Alex’s grinning face anyway he catches and holds on to with two arms, hugging it tightly to his chest. “Get the fuck out. I’ll see you when I get up.”

 

He closes his eyes when Alex doesn't reply. Hears his door creak as Alex closes it and the echo of his retreating footsteps, padding down the hallway back to the couch.

Rolling over, Ryland tries to let sleep consume him again and marginally succeeds the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really trying to have this wrap up soon, I promise!

**Author's Note:**

> come find me @ either [purple-satan-fic](http://purple-satan-fic.tumblr.com/) for my fic or [emberashcosplay](http://emberashcosplay.tumblr.com/) for more game grumps/good game stuff on tumblr!
> 
> title from [crywolf - quantum immortality](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_N58c9s5LwA), which has nothing to do with this fic but is a really rad song i listened to on repeat while i wrote this.


End file.
